‘Hold on to the pommels.’ He let her go as she did so, stepping to the side. ‘Straighten your arms and sit back a bit. You won’t fall,’ he said as she hesitated, ‘and if you do I’ll catch you.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise. Now, hold your tummy in tight.’ Phoebe took a deep breath and Owen, his eyes on a level with her bosom, was momentarily distracted. ‘Not like that,’ he said, dragging his eyes away, ‘as if you are trying to press your navel into your back.’
‘What a strange thing—oh, yes, I see.’ She was frowning in concentration. ‘What now?’
What now? He hardly knew where to look, for all the most delectable bits of her body seemed to be straining at her gown, which was wrapped tight around her bottom and riding up her legs. ‘Try to lift yourself up,’ Owen said, ‘not just with your arms, but from your middle, here.’
‘I can’t—I don’t...’
‘Stop talking. Save your breath and concentrate. Imagine there’s a rope pulling you up from your middle.’
‘That is—oh!’ Phoebe swung precariously, but there was a tiny gap between her body and the horse. ‘Look, Owen, I’m doing it.’
Her delight was infectious. He laughed. ‘Stop talking.’
‘It’s really difficult.’
‘Even more difficult when you don’t save your breath. Just breathe, and hold everything in.’
‘That is easier said than done when you are as fond of food as I am!’
‘Phoebe, shut up and breathe.’
She pursed her lips and breathed exaggeratedly, but her eyes were brimming with laughter.
‘Now,’ Owen said, ‘try to lift your legs up just a little.’
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again, her expression becoming focused as she tried—and failed—to move her legs. After taking a brief rest at his suggestion, she balanced and tried again with limited success, her face florid with the effort, but shaking her head violently when he told her that was enough. ‘One more time.’ She took a deep breath and lifted herself up. She screwed her face comically tight, and for a brief second, lifted both legs.
‘Well done.’
‘I did it!’ Her eyes flew open. Her arms and legs collapsed and Phoebe fell straight into Owen’s arms. ‘I did it,’ she said again, triumphantly. ‘I did do it, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’ His arms automatically tightened around her. She was flushed, her eyes gleaming, her lips parted as she smiled up at him, her arms twined around his neck. Her body, pressed against his was so lush, sensual and utterly beautiful, that his senses swam, and he dipped his head, feeling her breath on his face, drinking in the sweet scent of her.
Their lips met. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t resist her. It was a soft, tentative kiss, for he had all but forgotten what kisses were like, but as her mouth yielded to his, as she sighed and kissed him back, he stopped thinking and gave himself over to the pleasure of it. The taste of her. The touch of her tongue. The soft whisper of her breath on his, the little sighing sound she made, and the delight of her body, the sheer otherness of her body, the very definite indent of her waist, the curve of her bottom, her breasts pressed against his naked chest.
Her kisses went to his head. They inflamed him. They made his blood zing in his veins. Her hands were on his shoulders, his back, smoothing down his spine, curling into his behind, making him hard. Their tongues touched again. Their kisses deepened and he was filled with such longing, such an intense yearning to touch her, skin on skin.
Owen broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Phoebe staggered as he released her, leaning against the support of the pommel horse. She was flushed, heavy-lidded and delectable. And he was aroused, confused and—and very aroused! He swore under his breath. ‘I’m sorry.’
She gazed at him, looking as dazed as he felt. ‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Nor am I.’ A laugh escaped her that had an edge of hysteria to it, then her face flooded with colour. ‘That will be a lesson to me to come seeking you out in the middle of the day. I should go. Dinner,’ she said, backing away from him. ‘I’m making dinner. I must see to my pots.’
Owen made no attempt to stop her. Utterly shocked, he stared at the pommel horse, as if it was to blame for his throbbing erection and his wildly beating heart and the sheer elation that was making him grin like a lunatic. He felt as euphoric as if he had made love. His whole body tingled and pulsed. If there was a vaulting horse in the room, he was convinced he’d clear it with several feet to spare. Leaning back against the pommel horse, he closed his eyes, reliving the taste of Phoebe’s kisses and the way Phoebe’s body had melted into his, and the way his body had responded. The surge of blood to his groin, the throb of arousal, and the unique sense of anticipation that accompanied it, imagining the slow slide into slick heat that felt like nothing else on earth, and then the rhythm building...
He cursed under his breath, sweat sprinkling his back, his heart racing. Another few moments of thinking like that—dear God, if she had stayed, if he had not broken their kiss, would they even now...
Owen picked up his dressing gown, tying the sash in a ruthless knot, striding out of the room across to his bedchamber and into his bathing room. He needed a bath. A cold one! Catching sight of himself in the mirror, his hair dishevelled, his cheeks flushed, his pupils dark and dilated, he was startled into a laugh. He looked almost like himself. Though older.
Wiser? He swore again, sitting down on the rim of the bath, turning the tap which allowed the hot water to fill it, temporarily distracted as he was every time by this innovation. He had lost himself in Phoebe’s kisses, but he had not disappeared into himself as he’d feared he might. Was he getting better? Taking a deep breath, he peeled off his gloves and forced himself to stare down at his hands, but all he could think about was how much he wished he’d not been wearing his gloves when he held Phoebe in his arms.
Was he getting better? He still had nightmares, but the moments when he disappeared into himself were much less frequent. Being with Phoebe was easy, no effort at all. And with others too, sometimes, he felt—well, something approaching normal. Did that imply that he was getting better? He was too afraid to hope. A step at a time, he reminded himself, just as he’d cautioned Phoebe.
Bloody hell, Phoebe. Owen turned off the tap and quickly stripped, catching his breath as his body hit the tepid water. It was because he hadn’t kissed any woman in over two years, he told himself, that Phoebe’s kisses felt to him like no other kisses, like the best, most arousing kisses he’d ever shared. He knew that, but it made no difference. They were the best, the most arousing kisses he’d ever shared.
But he had no right to be kissing Phoebe, even if she was his wife. Kissing Phoebe had not been part of their agreement. In fact he’d assured Phoebe that he would never have any interest in kissing her or any woman. And Phoebe had assured him that she had no interest either. Yet she’d kissed him back with—with abandon! Perhaps she felt sorry for him? No, those were not pity kisses. It was the gymnastics, then? He wasn’t and would never be as good as he had once been, but there was something mesmerising about the movements, a sensuality, a—a primal connection between muscle and man.
Was he being fanciful? He was procrastinating. He had no idea why Phoebe had responded the way she had to his kisses, but the simple fact was he shouldn’t have kissed her. She was his wife in name only. He was her investor, not her husband in any real sense, he had no right to kiss her, and the only reason he was fit to kiss her in the first place was because he’d got himself fit! In order to help her with the restaurant! So he’d better bloody well concentrate on that.
Owen lay back in the bath, putting a wet flannel over his face. He would. He’d concentrate on their business venture. Just as soon as he got out the bath.
* * *
Back in the kitchen, Phoebe tied on her apron and tended to th
e stock pots before sitting down at the table, staring sightlessly at her notebook where she had written out tonight’s menu. Kissing Owen had been—no, she was most certainly not going to compare him to Pascal. There was, she thought with a satisfied smile, no comparison. Kissing Owen had been quite simply delicious. She shivered, remembering the way his mouth felt, the touch of his tongue, the way he’d smoothed his hands over her, clearly relishing her curves. If she had needed proof that Pascal was confined to history—which she didn’t—then her response was more than sufficient. Kissing Owen had been like eating an ice, the sharp burst of awareness, the mingling of hot and cold as it melted, then the lingering sweetness, and the craving for the next taste. Kissing Owen was, like watching him exercise, a sheer, sensual delight.
But she didn’t have any business kissing Owen, and Owen—goodness, Owen certainly hadn’t kissed like a man who had lost all desire. He hadn’t been acting, when he kissed her. Or had he? When Pascal told her he’d never loved her, she hadn’t believed him. How could he have made love to her with such passion—and so often, right up until the night before he ended their affaire!—if he hadn’t loved her. But it was different for men, he’d told her disdainfully, especially a man ruled by passion such as he. And she had been so very eager, he’d said. Had she? She hadn’t thought so at the time, she’d thought—but what was the point of going over it, when she’d decided just a few moments ago to confine Pascal to the past.
Had she been too eager with Owen? Seeds of doubt began to sprout in her mind. She was not in love with Owen, but did that make her kissing him worse or better? Would he be angry with her, for awakening feelings he’d thought dead? But he’d said he wasn’t sorry. He hadn’t looked angry, he’d looked as dazed as she. What was she to think? Perhaps she oughtn’t think.
She had kissed her husband, and her husband had kissed her back, and that was the end of it. Save that her husband’s kisses were vastly superior to Pascal’s kisses, she thought, mentally thumbing her nose at her former lover and making herself smile. Owen was getting better—better enough to want to kiss her—and a lot fitter too. Goodness, that physique!
No, she mustn’t think about that either. Owen was getting better because he had a purpose in life. She was getting better because she had a purpose in life too, thanks to Owen. So she’d better stop allowing herself to be distracted by kisses, and concentrate on what mattered, and right at this moment, it wasn’t superior kisses but superior cooking.
Phoebe scraped her chair back and headed for the pantry to assemble the rest of the ingredients for dinner. Happily turning her mind from one sensual delight to another, she set about constructing what she hoped would be the best dinner Owen had ever tasted.
Chapter Seven
Owen set his napkin down and picked up his wine glass. ‘That, I can say without fear of contradiction,’ he said, ‘was the best meal I’ve ever eaten.’
Phoebe chuckled, touching her glass to his. ‘Well, I was never going to go far wrong by serving venison, was I?’
‘How so?’
‘Back at the Procope, don’t you remember? When we played my game of guessing favourite foods. I guessed that your favourite dish was a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs, and you told me that you preferred a dinner of venison stew.’
‘How very ungallant of me. Stew does not adequately describe the fragrant dish you served tonight.’
She rested her chin on her hands. ‘You cannot remain a culinary philistine if you are investing in London’s newest and most popular restaurant, Owen. I intend to educate your palate, starting now. Tell me what you think was in the dish, besides the venison.’
‘Mushrooms.’
‘Very good. What else?’
He frowned in exaggerated concentration. ‘Chestnuts—yes, there were definitely chestnuts.’
‘Think of the flavours, remember how it smelled. What other ingredients spring to mind?’
‘I feel like I’m back at school and I’m about to fail a very important exam. I’m sorry Phoebe, I haven’t a clue.’
‘There was bacon, to give it richness and a little fat because venison is a very lean meat. The warmth comes from cinnamon—though I used a very little of Mr Murray’s extensive spice store—cloves and a pinch of nutmeg. The sauce is a reduction of red wine, the good beef stock I made this morning, and the pulped flesh of a tomato for a little bit of tartness. Oh, and bay, onion, salt and pepper of course, those go without saying.’
‘Of course they do,’ Owen said. ‘And what it added up to was the best plate of venison I’ve ever tasted. I mean that.’
‘Thank you. I won’t bore you by dissecting the other dishes, I’m just happy that you sampled all of them.’
‘I am certainly enjoying my food a great deal more these days—no doubt due to the excellent company provided by my dining companion. I’m also very honoured to be the recipient of the first dinner you’ve cooked since you returned to England, though it was much more homely fare than I was expecting from a top chef.’
‘I reckoned that you’re not fond of overly refined and elegant food.’
‘Not particularly, to be honest, but isn’t that what restaurants like the one you aspire to open serve?’
‘I cooked this meal just for you, as a thank you. When I sought you out earlier and interrupted your training—’ She broke off, for despite her determination not to think about it, she remembered the kiss and felt the heat stealing over her cheeks. ‘I should have knocked more loudly.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t, but I want to assure you that what transpired was furthest from my thoughts. Or would have been, until very recently.’
‘There’s really no need...’
‘Oh, but there is.’ Owen picked up his wine glass, changed his mind and set it down. ‘Let me explain, or attempt to. It is a delicate subject. You’ve inspired me to—to look at life afresh, I suppose. To haul myself out of the doldrums, is another way of putting it. I feel better. I’m fitter. And as a result I discovered today that I—I am no longer without urges,’ he said, colouring. ‘Our marriage has provided me with an unexpected, but very welcome sense of purpose, thanks to you. But I want you to know that’s more than enough for me. Today was a—it happened, but it would be best if we concentrated on the matter in hand, which is the restaurant, don’t you agree?’
Phoebe heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I was thinking much the same thing. It wouldn’t be a good idea at all for us to mix business with pleasure—I mean—oh, goodness, you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’
‘Good. I haven’t told you properly, Owen, how very grateful I am for the help you’ve been giving me.’
‘I said I would, Phoebe, I’ve simply been keeping my side of the bargain.’
‘No, I don’t mean the practical help you’ve given me—or not only that. You’ve made me see that I’ve not been helping myself. What you said, about underestimating myself—I do that, I see that now, and I’m going to try to change.’
‘Phoebe, I...’
‘No, let me say this. It’s very difficult for me to hear any sort of criticism of Estelle because she’s my twin, and it was even more difficult for me to accept what you said about her. She doesn’t mean to run me down, she’s trying to protect me but—well, the effect is that I do have a fairly low opinion of myself.’ Phoebe took a reviving sip of wine. ‘You know me better than myself or my sisters do, it seems. So thank you, Owen. I’ve rewarded you with nothing but doubts and worries so far, but that is going to change. I won’t let you down—or at least if I do, it won’t be for the want of trying. And as to that, I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Good, I’m all ears. Shall we take our wine through to the parlour?’
Phoebe jumped to her feet. ‘You’re in sore need of a more comfortable seat. You should have said. Did you overstretch yourself with your gymnastics today because of me? I�
��m so sorry.’
‘I didn’t. No, actually I probably did, but it wasn’t your fault. I was showing off for your benefit,’ he admitted sheepishly.
And she had appreciated it. Very much. But she must not think about that! ‘You go on,’ Phoebe said, turning her back on him to look for a tray. ‘I’ll bring the drinks.’
She took her time putting the decanter and glasses on a tray, and by the time she reached the parlour, she had supplanted thoughts of those kisses with the subject they had agreed must take precedence.
She handed Owen his glass and took her usual seat on the sofa, curling her feet under her. ‘Do you know of a place called Crockford’s Club?’
‘You mean the gambling club in St James’s?’
‘You do know it then.’
‘I don’t frequent it, never have. Cards don’t interest me.’
‘It has a restaurant,’ Phoebe said, ‘with Eustache Ude, no less, in charge of the kitchen.’
‘Another culinary hero of yours, I gather from the gleam in your eyes.’
‘His father worked in the kitchens of King Louis the Sixteenth.’
‘Who gave his head to Madame Guillotine. There are doubtless a great number of gentlemen who have lost their shirt at Crockford’s tables who would wish Monsieur Ude Junior’s employer a similar fate.’
‘If I had to lose at the tables in order to sample Monsieur Ude’s menu, then it would be a price worth paying.’
‘A moot point since females are not permitted to cross the threshold. No respectable female, that is. I’m not sure what Crockford’s rules are regarding light skirts.’
‘I could pass for a light skirt,’ Phoebe said.
Owen raised a quizzical brow. ‘It conjures an image not without its attractions, but it would be to no avail. I am fairly certain that the dining room is a strictly male-only preserve.’
Phoebe rolled her eyes. ‘As I had assumed. Well in that one sense our restaurant is going to be very different, since I am determined it should serve a mixed clientele. But I would dearly like to taste the food.’
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